Page 45 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
“Sounds… lonely,” I say before I can stop myself.
He stares at the fire. “Got used to it.”
“You don’t have to be used to it.”
He glances at me. “Life isn’t a movie, Aspen.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But it doesn’t have to be a prison either.”
His eyes hold mine. Long. Unblinking.
“What am I supposed to do?” he asks quietly. “Just… rewrite everything after thirty-five years?”
“Maybe not rewrite it,” I say. “Just… make a new chapter.”
He watches me like I’m saying something dangerous. Something he almost believes.
“And what—” his voice drops, “—exactly do you think I fill that chapter with?”
I exhale. “Joy.”
He huffs. “I don’t do joy.”
“You don’t have to.” I reach and place one candle between us. “You just… let a little in.”
He stares at the candle. Then at me.
And then, in a voice that almost isn’t there, he says:
“You’re joy, witch.”
My heart caves. Just—gone. Flattened. Heat rises behind my eyes. Damn him. I look away fast.
“Careful, Mountain Man,” I murmur, throat tight. “Almost sounded like a compliment.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
I feel him watching me again. And not in the way that says he’s trying to figure me out. In the way that says he already has—and it’s wrecking him.
The fireplace pops. The wind screams. The candles flicker.
My eyes feel heavy, and I don’t know if it’s grief or comfort or something new entirely, but I curl deeper into the blanket.
Without a word, he shifts closer. Not touching. Just… there. Heavy warmth beside me.
He doesn’t say lie down.
He doesn’t suggest sleep.
He just rests his hand palm-up on the floor between us. A silent offering.
I stare at it for a long moment. Then I slide my fingers into his, lacing them slow.
His hand closes around mine. Strong. Protective. Possessive in a quiet way.
We don’t talk.
We don’t move.
